


Judging By the State of His Pants

by gwenweybourne



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: FYJFF Red Pants Contest, John likes red pants, M/M, Red Pants, Sherlock doesn't like to do his own laundry, So does Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-23
Updated: 2012-09-23
Packaged: 2017-11-14 22:04:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/519981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwenweybourne/pseuds/gwenweybourne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John insists on doing his own laundry. In private. Sherlock decides to investigate why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Judging By the State of His Pants

**Author's Note:**

> Third-place winner in the Fuck Yeah Johnlock Fanfic Red Pants contest! Inspired by Reapersun's red pants meme.
> 
> (And look at this [crazy-hot cover](http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_mbl8ndxZCF1roq8zro1_500.jpg) they made me, rawr!)

There were many things about John Watson that Sherlock Holmes didn’t fully understand. With other people he might find this vexing, but with John, it just made him interesting. Challenging. Sometimes it was the mundane contradictions that intrigued him the most. Whether it was the daredevil doctor’s predilection for doddery jumpers and sensible shoes or his steadfast insistence on doing his own laundry when such a tedious task wasn’t necessary.

The question first arose during John’s first week of tenancy at Baker Street. A few days after solving A Study in Pink (Sherlock was still unimpressed by the moniker). Sherlock was reclining on the couch, immersed in the morning paper when he’d heard the shuffling, zippering sounds of John getting ready to go out.

“Where are you going?” he’d asked, not looking up from the article at hand, half bored as if he didn’t care, and half petulant as if he was greatly offended that the doctor was going somewhere without him.

John cleared his throat minutely, a sound that would be oft repeated, as he tended to use it when he was trying to make a point or saw no point in Sherlock’s inquiries, which infuriated Sherlock, seeing as _all_ of his questions were important.

No answer followed the throat-clearing and Sherlock sighed and lowered his paper to determine the rude lack of response, then noticing the laundry basket tucked under the doctor’s arm. A bottle of detergent was nestled amongst the soiled clothes and a quick glance revealed a larger-than-usual number of coins in John’s pocket.

“You’re going to do _laundry?_ ” Sherlock forced the words out as if they tasted foul. “Whatever for?”

John sighed. “I’m not sure how things work in your world, Sherlock, but in my world clothes get dirty and they need to be cleaned lest one walk around looking and smelling like a vagrant.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and shifted to a sitting position. “Yes, John, I am aware of the existence of laundry. What I meant was why are you wasting time on such a mundane task? I employ a very efficient service to clean my clothes. They come once a week to fetch my things and they do everything to order.” Sherlock curled his lip with contempt. “Took me a while to find one that did things properly, though. Was barred from the others …”

John blinked. “Barred? You were barred by a laundry service."

“Service _s_. Plural.” Sherlock scowled. “There was some … unpleasantness …”

John sighed again, setting the basket down with exaggerated effort, clearly annoyed by the entire conversation. “Only you, I swear to God. Sherlock, do you remember why it became necessary for me to seek a flatmate in the first place?”

Sherlock looked at him, momentarily confused before understanding dawned. “Oh ... that.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Money isn’t a problem, John. Just put your laundry in with mine. Just remember to do that … that thing you have to do.”

“Sorting?”

“Yes, that, I suppose. Though you favour such bland colours, I don’t see any danger of your clothes bleeding onto mine. Besides, most of my wardrobe is dry-clean only, anyway.”

“Thanks, but no thanks, Sherlock.”

Sherlock cocked his head, confused. “Why not? It’s a perfectly reasonable and logical offer. Your time is better spent assisting me with cases than watching your socks spin-dry.”

“I’m not your charity case. Besides the fact that I don’t fancy the idea of our undergarments mingling in the wash, there’s also the fact that I actually enjoy doing my own laundry.”

“I beg your pardon?”

John picked up the basket again. “I had my laundry sent out when I was on base in the army. When we were in the field … well, you made do with the resources at hand. Very often it just meant you lived and worked in the same filthy kit until you completed your mission. But, with medicine, you know, keeping things clean and sterile is necessary and it was … challenging out there …” John’s words trailed off and his eyes clouded over in a way Sherlock had already come to recognize. He waited patiently until the moment passed and the doctor returned to the present. John shook his head and cleared his throat again. “I find the task comforting and cathartic. Predictable. Ah, anyway, I best be off. Wait much longer and all the machines will be busy.”

“We’re out of tea."

“So?”

Sherlock stared at John and raised his eyebrows.

John sighed a third time. “I’ll pick some up on the way back.”

* * *

The routine became familiar. Unless they were immersed in a case, John dutifully trundled out the door every Saturday morning with his basket of clothes. Even when cashflow became more regular between John’s work at the clinic and the increased caseload that came with their increased notoriety, John insisted on doing his own wash. One time Sherlock even offered to accompany him and was rebuffed. “Laundromats are boring, Sherlock. You’ll hate it and you’ll drive me mad in the process.”

Hardly sound reasoning. The more he thought about it, the more interesting a laundromat sounded. So many people to analyze and clues to pick up from their clothes and the way they were handled. Something rang false. Was the doctor hiding something from him? Did he secretly wear women’s underthings or perhaps some kind of lucky-charm piece of clothing worn under those dull jumpers? The idea was amusing and intriguing and Sherlock had no intention of simply idly wondering about it. He would investigate, of course.

As a result he had no compunction about rooting through John’s drawers on a Saturday afternoon when John was working a shift at the clinic (considering how many times his possessions had been riffled through during various “drugs busts”). The recently laundered clothes had a pungently detergent-fresh scent and were still vaguely warm to the touch, so it wasn’t difficult to determine which things had been taken out that day.

He started with the drawer that contained socks and pants and methodically sorted through them, when suddenly he found something that made him stop entirely.

“Ho now, what’s this?” He extracted a pair of bright-red cotton pants with white trim. It was the only pair out of a sea of standard white boring pants. Sherlock held them up and examined them. _Warm — laundered today. Slightly worn, as evidenced by colour fade, thinning spots, and stretched elastic — has had them awhile and wears them regularly. More worn on the right side — I always thought he sat slightly lopsided. Other pairs are newer-looking and the colour is outlandish in comparison. Must have sentimental value. But why? A gift, most likely. From whom?_ Not for the first time, Sherlock felt a strange stab of feeling that he had come to associate with jealousy. Jealousy for anyone who took John’s time away from Sherlock. Anyone who got to see John in his pants, let alone these special red pants. He paused for a only a brief moment before shutting the drawer and stuffing the pants in his pocket as he left the room and went to fetch his coat.

* * *

  
“Okay, Sherlock, where are they?”

Sherlock snuffled and blinked his eyes open, looking up to see a perturbed John Watson looming over him, wearing his robe and an angry expression. The early-morning light filtered through a gap in the curtains. As usual, Sherlock had stayed up most of the night working on an experiment and had only retired a hour or two prior to John rising.

Sherlock yawned and raised up on an elbow, shoving a hand through his unruly curls. “Where are what, John? Can’t this wait until I’ve actually woken up properly?”

“No, it can’t, you nosy git. You were pawing around in my drawers yesterday, weren’t you? While I was at work. For what reason is beyond me, but you took them and you knew I’d notice, so here is me noticing and demanding you return them.”

“Your red pants, you mean.”

“Yes, the red pants.” John was blushing. “Why on earth did you take them?”

“They’re special to you. I wanted to know why.”

“It doesn’t matter, Sherlock. Please, just give them back. This is embarrassing.”

Sherlock curled his lip and peeled back the blanket to reveal his body, nude save for the pair of bright red pants riding low on his narrow hips.

John gaped. _“SHERLOCK!”_

“I can see why you like them, John. They’re quite comfortable, though a bit worn out.”

_“You are wearing my pants!”_

“Problem?”

John made a wordless sound of frustration. “Why don’t you just use my toothbrush while you’re at it?”

“I do when I’ve used mine to clean test tubes. Though you should consider purchasing the extra-soft variety. Much better for the gums. Gums are as important as teeth, you know.”

John buried his face in his hands, moaning softly.

“I’ll give you your pants back on two conditions.”

“And what might those be?” John’s voice was still muffled by his hands.

“Tell me why you favour them.”

“And then?”

“Answer the first question.”

John sighed and looked up, really seeing Sherlock, sprawled languorously across the bed, the red undergarment shockingly stark against his milky-white skin. The long, lean lines of his body gave him a graceful, feline look. Sherlock’s eyes met his and John was startled to feel a burst of electricity and a hungry heat in Sherlock’s previously sleepy gaze.

This was not the first time John had visually appreciated Sherlock’s form, but this was certainly the first time Sherlock had looked at him in such a way. John’s eyes unconsciously strayed lower, to the faint outline of Sherlock’s cock, which was becoming more pronounced. _My god, he’s turned on by my gaze. What is happening here …?_

He cleared his throat. “They were, uh, a gift. From a woman."

“Girlfriend?”

“Sort of. Lovers, at any rate. For a little while. We met during my first posting,” John said. “She gave them to me as a bit of a joke. Saying I seemed like the kind of man who would never purchase, let alone wear, red pants.”

“I would have agreed with her.” Sherlock had slipped a finger under the elastic waistband, which didn’t quite cling to him, given his slender figure and John’s wider girth. Watching him trace a line along his pelvis under the elastic was surprisingly compelling to John.

“In the desert,” John murmured, “everything was the same colour. The sand, the camo, the vehicles, the buildings. All of it. Sometimes I felt better knowing I had some hidden colour on. And also …”

“What?” Sherlock smirked, looking at John curiously.

John shrugged, blushing again. “She said they looked sexy on me. She, er, they, made me feel desirable. Like I’m the kind of man who can get away with wearing red pants.”

“That brings us to my second condition.”

“Oh? And what’s that?"

“I want to see.”

“See what?”

“If indeed you are the kind of man who can get away with wearing red pants.” The statement dripped with innuendo and the atmosphere in the room was shifting to something downright heady. John felt a stirring in his groin.

“That might be difficult considering the pants are being worn by you right now.”

Sherlock reached under his pillow and threw something at John. The doctor made to duck — “Oi, Sherlock!” — then realized what was now draped over his shoulder. He held up a brand-new pair of red pants. Virtually identical to the ones his flatmate currently sported.

“You didn’t.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Well, obviously I did, John. You’re holding the evidence in your hand.”

“And you want me to try these on. And let you see them on me.”

“Yes.”

John furrowed his brow and pressed his lips together for a moment. “Sherlock. What is going on here? What is this?” _This — you’re my flatmate and colleague and friend. Why do you look so damnably good in my pants?_

“You are attracted to me.” A blunt statement.

John made a noise in the back of his throat.

Sherlock stretched luxuriously, resting his weight on his elbows and effectively putting himself on display for John. “I knew right away that you were a man who, despite a bland wardrobe and pedestrian tastes in music and culture —”

“Hang on just a bloody minute —”

“— had a taste for danger and excitement. But I confess I didn’t think you were the sort of man to wear red pants.” Sherlock smirked. “Probably because I don’t consider such things often. But your laundry habits were strangely furtive, albeit predictable. I had to investigate. And what I found … intrigued me.”

“Only because you’ve decided that all of my business is your business.”

“Obviously.” Sherlock delivered a pitying look implying yet again that John was painfully dull-witted. The combination of this with his come-hither posture was incredibly confusing.

“You know … now that I have a pair of red pants, I could just walk out the door and let you keep the old tatty ones.”

Sherlock nodded. “You could. But you won’t.”

“Oh, is that so?”

“Sentiment. Also, you’re aroused. Confused, but aroused. Your pupils are size of dinner plates. You want to see where this is going.”

John gritted his teeth. Sherlock was right. As usual.

“Put them on. Let me see.” Sherlock’s voice shifted into a dangerous purr.

John’s cheeks were flushed scarlet again. “All right, all right,” he muttered, biting the waistband of the red pants to free his hands, then turned his back on Sherlock and opened his robe to shimmy out of the pants he was currently wearing.

“Oh come on, John. Don’t be a prude,” Sherlock scolded, disappointed.

“Ith you fink I’m dropping trou jutht like that, you are shorely mishtaken,” John pronounced, his voice muffled by the fabric between his teeth.

Sherlock released a frustrated puff of breath that tousled the curls resting on his forehead.

John straightened up and looked down at himself. “Hmmm. Quite nice, these. Where did you get them?” _Let’s try to get past the part where Sherlock bleeding Holmes went shopping. For me. For pants. Pants for me. RED pants for me. Oh, good lord._

“Never mind that,” said Sherlock. “I want to see.”

John took a deep breath, then slowly turned around to face his flatmate, robe hanging open to expose his bare legs, naked torso, and of course, the red pants.

Sherlock flicked his fingers impatiently. “Robe, too. Come now. I need the full aesthetic.”

John rolled his eyes, but slipped the robe off his shoulders and let it fall to the floor.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and he quickly catalogued and memorized all the data, from the scarring on John’s shoulder to the shape of his patellae and the way the red pants hugged his hips, stretching ever so slightly over the subtle soft curve of his belly and the suggestive shape of his cock. Sherlock’s breath quickened and he unconsciously rose to his knees and when he came out of his analytical reverie, he was within arm’s reach of the doctor.

Meanwhile, John watched Sherlock move, not for the first time surprised by the grace and coordination contained in those gangly limbs. Gravity had its way with the comparatively looser waistband of the old red pants and John’s eyes followed a path down Sherlock’s pale, firm belly, to a glimpse of a darkening thatch of hair that disappeared behind the fabric. John swallowed, feeling himself harden. He wanted, god, he wanted.

Cold blue met warm, their gazes locking.

“John?” Sherlock whispered helplessly.

“Oh, sod it,” John growled, and closed the distance between them, slipping one hand behind Sherlock’s skull and the other under his arm and around his back, roughly bringing him in close, their mouths crushing together with a clumsy kind of fervour. Sherlock groaned and clutched at John, wrapping both arms around him, one hand sneaking stealthily into the back of the pants to cup his arse, provoking a muffled chuckle from John followed by a startled sound as Sherlock hauled him down on the bed.

There was a bit of tussling as they struggled between trying to settle in a comfortable position and wanting to grope every last bit of one another. Sherlock in particular, who was dizzy with the information overload and eventually short-circuited, falling onto his back while John crawled up predatorily between his legs, fitting their hips together and rocking against Sherlock in a slow, thoroughly lascivious fashion, the friction resulting from the movement and the fabric on fabric both exquisite and excruciating. They kissed deeply, nipping and tasting and growling as their movements became more frantic.

“You,” Sherlock panted, his fingers clutching John’s shoulders, his hips rocking up harder to meet John’s, “are definitely the kind of man who can get away with red pants.”

John made a pleased sound that fell somewhere between a growl and a purr and he then reached down, forcing his hand between their sweat-slick torsos, easily shoving Sherlock’s pants down, then struggling a little with his own — _damn this new, firm elastic, ow!_ — to wrap his hand around both their erections, stroking hard. Sherlock made a very un-Holmes-like primal noise and dug his fingernails into John’s flesh, trembling.

“Jesus, Sherlock,” John groaned, burying his face in the other man’s neck, breath coming hot and fast. “Jesus fucking Christ …”

“This isn’t a threesome, John,” Sherlock moaned between gritted teeth. “I’ll thank you to keep the deities out of this … oh … fuck me!”

“Is that an invitation?”

“Oh, yes … no — _ngggff_ — shut up!”

John grinned and lifted his head to kiss Sherlock again. Sherlock scowled at first, but soon succumbed to John’s mouth and all talking ceased, giving way to panting moans and the creak of the mattress as the two men arched and strained against one another, John’s hand moving swiftly over heated flesh made slick by sweat and precome.

“John,” Sherlock gasped. “John, I’m … I’m close … please …”

John didn’t think he’d ever heard Sherlock plead for anything ever before and filed it away for future teasing, but for now he took the comment to heart. “Yes,” he groaned, “it’s all right Sherlock … uhhhh … so am I. God, yes … just …” The words had barely left his mouth when Sherlock’s back arched and he let out a strangled groan, shuddering as he spilled over John’s fingers.

John watched, fascinated. The sight of Sherlock losing all control was awe-inspiring and immensely erotic. That, combined with the added slickness, caused John to whimper aloud. He made to release Sherlock’s cock, but the detective made a husky noise of protest.

“No, John, don’t let go … I want to feel you …” his voice was shaky and small in a way John had never heard before.

“I won’t,” he gasped, his hand moving more swiftly now. “I won’t … oh, Christ …” This was better than the last hundred wanks he’d had. Better than anything he’d had recently (which, admittedly, wasn’t much). He wanted Sherlock, he wanted more of this, he wanted …

John came suddenly and violently, letting out a sharp bark of surprise as his orgasm slammed into him. He bit Sherlock’s neck, his hips rolling as he rode out wave after wave of pleasure, shooting over Sherlock’s abdomen and of course, his, er, John’s, red pants. As the sensation passed, John fell still, breathing hard, his senses swimming. And when he started to come around and regain his wits, he felt something unusual, and realizing it was Sherlock’s lips gently nuzzling at the scar tissue on his shoulder. The feeling was strange and oddly intimate and it made him smile. He gently pushed his hand through Sherlock’s hair and kissed his temple before rolling off him onto his back with a soft groan.

As if on cue, they both looked down to see their pants tangled around their legs, damp with sweat and semen. John chuckled and rolled onto his side resting his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock’s hand automatically lifted to stroke John’s hair.

“What day did you say your laundry service came around?” John’s voice was muffled against Sherlock’s skin.

“I didn’t. But it’s Wednesday.” Sherlock’s voice was gently amused.

“Right, then. Think I will take you up on your offer. Since you decided to make a gigantic mess of two of my pairs of pants on the night AFTER laundry day.”

Sherlock looked down at John’s torso. “You made a considerable contribution to said mess, Doctor.”

“Shut up.”

“I think you should only ever wear red pants. Anything else is beneath you.”

“Insert crude joke about you being the only thing beneath me.”

Silence.

“Are you rolling your eyes, Sherlock?”

“Mmm, indeed.”

“So you’ll go shopping for them.”

“Yes.”

John lifted his head to look at Sherlock. “Seriously? You’re going to go shopping for me … again.”

“You’ll get the wrong kind if I leave it up to you.”

“So, let me get this straight: I buy the milk, the tea, the groceries, and any other sundries that strike your fancy.”

“Yes.”

“And you buy my pants.”

“Yes. Problem?”

John paused, considering, then shrugged and curled up against Sherlock, who wrapped his arms around John in return. “No, I think that will be just fine.”


End file.
